


Hyacinthius

by wecara



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Hyacinth AU, M/M, Shance Flower Exchange 2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 17:57:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18856129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wecara/pseuds/wecara
Summary: His name is Hyacinthius Leandro McClain. But everyone calls him Lance.Someday, everyone will call him Hyacinth.





	Hyacinthius

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moccici](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moccici/gifts).



> Hi... so, I’m kinda the most annoying Shance Flower Exchange participant ever, considering I’m a day late posting it AND I’m splitting it up into chapters.  
> Basically, I got so excited about this story, that I couldn’t just write it in 3,000 words. I wasn’t done with it and the deadline was creeping up, so I panicked and now I’m gonna post what I have so far in the next week or so. I’m almost finished with it I PROMISE, it’s coming out to about 10,000 words, which is uh. More than I anticipated.   
> Anyways, here’s the first installment, Andrea! I’m so sorry it’s late!

They say that the beaches of Cuba weren’t always this colorful. Back before birds and fish carried the seeds of their homelands to the long Carribean island, there were only swaying palms and ceiba trees. 

Dyes were traded by visiting merchants carrying vibrant powders and fragrant spices, and the people of Cuba rejoiced in the colorful gifts. They colored their threads in yellows, reds, and blues, wrapping their hair in beautiful headdresses and sewing delicate lace clothing. They found ways to speak without words, through dance, song, embrace—and of course, through their flowers.

Every flower on the island has a story. Roses tell of love, orchids preach strength, mariposas are bright and light like a butterfly. One can weave entire stories through a vibrant bouquet. 

The most interesting story of all belongs to the first one ever told.

It’s the story of the Hyacinth. 

 

He woke to a gentle nudging on the side of his face. He scrunched his nose against the tickling feeling of hot breath and wet nose brushing against his cheek. His eyes fluttered open, wide and blue as the sea beneath him. 

“Woah, Canela!” Lance laughed. The sheep nudged him again,  _ baa _ -ing impatiently. Lance sighed and rolled over, and the fluffy white sheep happily began chowing down on the fresh green grass Lance had just been napping on. 

His rich brown skin was warm from the sun’s happy midday glow, a gentle late-spring breeze toyed with his curly brown hair. Beneath him, soft, lush grass cooled his palms and legs where the green stalks brushed against him. He sat atop a hill overlooking the white sands of the beach, his back to the village where he lived. Around him, his family’s sheep grazed atop the fresh new grass the rainy season had grown a few months prior. He smiled and gazed around them, counting each head and making sure all were accounted for. He felt a little guilty for falling asleep in the middle of his watch, but theirs were good sheep, and their happy little sheepdog, Kosmo, never shied away from his duty. 

And the gorgeous sun was too much to pass up. 

Each day that Lance was blessed by the kisses of the sun rather than the weary winds and rains of a storm was a day that Lance celebrated. He never burned under the sun’s hot rays like some of his siblings, which meant that he could sit under its rays for as long as he wanted and never got much more than a handful of new freckles along his shoulders or across the bridge of his nose. 

The rainy season had been especially dreary this year, the winds were persistent in their annual attempts to blow Lance’s window on the northernmost side of the house in. Every year since Lance turned 16, no matter how many times they reinforced the windows and walls, the wind (and therefore the rain) somehow managed to leak into his bedroom and chill him to the bone. He’d tried to convince his siblings to switch rooms with him a couple times, but none of them wanted to deal with sleeping in a cold, wet bed. 

Lance turned and gazed up at the sky once more, shielding his eyes from the sun’s vibrant light. 

“This one’s for you, sunshine,” he called upwards, fishing his pipe from his bag. Then, with a deep breath of the warm spring air, he began to play. 

 

Not a cloud was covering the sky over Cuba that day, and as Lance’s music drifted through the air, it tumbled uninterrupted into the chariot of Shiro, the God of the Sun. 

Shiro was on his daily trek across the sky, shedding warmth over those nations that the selfish Storm Gods allowed him to. They had come to a truce millenia ago, where Shiro was allowed two seasons of the year to shine down uninterrupted, and the Sons of the Storm were permitted two seasons of their own. This year, the Storms had been especially greedy, going almost a month over their allotted time. 

As he rode over an especially clear swath of sky, shrouding a tiny island in the middle of the dazzling blue sea, his ears caught hold of an achingly familiar tune. 

He stopped, mid-flight, to listen. 

Gentle, swaying notes, coaxed lovingly from a panflute, accompanied by the occasional call from a sheep. It was the unmistakable call from a Cuban shepherd. As Shiro drifted further down towards the earth to catch a better listen, he finally remembered the name of the tune.

The Lonely Shepherd. 

But this music sounded far from lonely, the way the notes leapt excitedly from the instrument were more akin to a happy fanfare than a melancholy cry. 

Oh, and the skill with which it was played! It was unlike anything Shiro had ever heard from a mortal being—if this lonely shepherd was a mortal at all. 

Deciding his curiosity could take it no longer, the God of the Sun commanded his horses drive the chariot across the sky without him for the time being and leaped from the sky to find the talented shepherd. Like an arrow, he dove to the earth, cutting the air around him like a knife. The music grew louder and sweeter the closer he got, and when the shepherd was in sight, he slowed his descent to a graceful float, much like a leaf drifting from the branches of its tree. 

 

Lance closed his eyes in concentration—the highest notes of the song were coming up, and they were always the most difficult for him to play. He took a deep breath in through his nose, pressed his lips to the round opening of the panflute’s smallest pipe, and stopped. 

Something bright and beautiful in the sky ahead of him caught his eye. It shone like a star, but was too big to be so. And it appeared to be getting bigger. Lance stood, setting the flute aside, and squinted his eyes up at the descending figure. As it got closer to him, he noticed it was shaped vaguely like a man. 

But it couldn’t be a man, men didn’t float in the sky, glowing like they were built of sunshine. Lance’s confusion grew as the man-thing fell closer and closer until he was too bright to look at clearly. Lance’s hands flew up in front of his face to shield him from the light, and one of his sheep cried out in confusion. He stumbled back, the light and warmth from the figure overwhelming him, and he fell from his feet onto the lush grass once more. He wondered if he was dead. 

“Wait, please don’t be afraid,” a deep voice, rich and musical, washed over him like ocean waves. Lance blinked a few tears from his eyes—developed after his attempts to look at the light—and took another shielded glance at the man that had fallen from the sky. 

The aura around him began to fade away as Lance gazed up at the man, allowing him to look at the strange personage. 

He was dressed in floating white and gold garments, draped across his body and twirling around him like sheets of ocean water left atop the sun-warmed sand after a crashing wave. The blinding quality of his light had faded, but a faint golden glow still fell from his body in warm beams of light. His skin was smooth and sculpted like stone, his face beautiful and timeless. He had warm golden eyes and a halo of white hair, his smile was bright and comforting as the sun’s golden rays. He looked like a God.

At that thought, Lance’s heart leaped into his throat. The pictures didn’t do the man justice.

“Y-you’re…” Lance stammered.

“Shiro, God of the Sun,” the God finished, smiling warmly down at Lance’s dumbstruck face. “I heard your playing and wanted to come see who was responsible for such a beautiful performance.”

“M-my… my flute? You heard me playing?” Lance’s eyes darted to the panflute, still sitting atop his bag, innocent and simple. His older sister made it for him when he was twelve, out of simple reeds and yellow twine, now ratty from use. It was one of Lance’s most prized possessions, yet next to the glory of the God it looked less like a flute and more like a pile of bark. 

“Yes. It was beautiful, you’re a masterful musician,” the God replied with a smile.  It was an angelic smile. Lance felt his heart falter for a beat, then resume it’s thumping with twice the force as before. 

“Thank—thank you, my Lord, it’s—it’s an honor, I—” Lance was breathless under the praise. Shiro wasn’t only the God of the Sun, but also the God of Music, Medicine, Prophesy, Archery, and much more. To be complimented by a God is the highest honor. 

“Please, just call me Shiro,” the God—Shiro—corrected. He held out his hand towards the flute, inclining his head politely. “May I…?”

“Oh! Of course, yes, please! It would be an honor, my L—Shiro,” Lance’s hand shot out to the flute and he presented it to the divine man in the most sacrificial, respectful manner he could manage—kneeling in the grass with his head bowed and his hands held up high above him. 

Shiro took the flute and gazed at it thoughtfully, turning it around in his hands. Then he took a deep breath in through his nose, let his eyes flutter shut, and made Lance’s instrument sing.

It wasn’t a song Lance had ever heard before, but the instant the first note glided from Shiro’s lips, smooth and glossy like honey, Lance fell in love. It required skill beyond Lance’s capabilities to play—Shiro could produce multiple notes at the same time to create dazzling chords and tense dissonance, something Lance would probably never learn how to do—but oh how he yearned to make music as magnificent as the song he heard now! The notes were entrancing, weaving around Lance like thread woven in a loom until his entire being felt one with the song. He closed his eyes and let himself get swept up in the feeling.

It felt like raspberry tarts cooking in the warm kitchen while the rain pattered the roof above. It felt like splashing in puddles when the sun cascaded over the streets, setting every soaking surface alight with brilliant, glistening reflections. It felt like splashing in the water, a shock of cold against his hot, sun-warmed skin. It felt like laughter after a silly joke, soft smiles after a hug from his Mama. The song felt like home.

As the last note hung in the air, Lance’s eyes fluttered open, and he found himself standing face-to-face with Shiro, gazing up at the sun god’s dark golden eyes a few inches above him. Lance could feel the God’s warmth radiating from him in waves, and he felt his eyes fluttering shut once more as he started to sway closer to the glorious, divine warmth and light. 

But then he caught himself. 

A jolt of horror streaked down his spine as he staggered back, eyes flying open. He’d just met a  _ God  _ and he was about to try and  _ hug him?!  _ For what? To feel his  _ warmth _ ? It was a complete lack of respect on his part, he was mortified.

“Woah—uh, I’m  _ so  _ sorry, I—I don’t know what came over me,” he blubbered, cheeks going red. He rocked back on his feet, trying to pull away from the God without it looking like he was recoiling. 

Shiro reached out his hands and placed them on Lance’s shoulders, stilling him. In an instant, Lance was like pat of butter melting over hot toast. His heartbeat slowed, and his breathing went less erratic. He gazed up at Shiro once more, completely calm. 

“It’s okay, sometimes my songs can… have that effect,” Shiro apologized, and he looked down, almost sheepish. His cheeks and the tips of his ears went golden and glowy. Lance had heard that a God’s blood isn’t red like a man’s, but made of ichor like liqid gold. Was Shiro… blushing?

Shiro’s hands fell away from Lance’s shoulders, his hot skin sliding against his arms, lingering a moment before drawing back to the God’s sides. He set the pipe back down onto Lance’s bag with a smile. 

“What kind of effect?” Lance breathed when Shiro stood back up. 

“Y’know, sort of… spellbinding? I don’t intend to do it most of the time, it’s just, well, God powers. It’s hard to know how mortals fare against things that are just everyday stuff on The Mountain Voltron,” Shiro explained. Lance nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t. 

“What was in that song? What kind of spell?” He asked dreamily. He didn’t  _ feel  _ spellbound. If anything, he just felt a little blissed out from Shiro’s calming touch. 

“That was a song for memories,” Shiro said. “It’s written by a man whose daughter got sick and died, but before she departed for the underworld, she promised her father that she would hang the night with stars for him, so he’d know she was watching. She said that every star she planted would be seeded by one of their happy memories together. She didn’t want him to dwell on the sad things.”

“That’s… beautiful,” Lance murmured. The blissful calm was beginning to fade, but he didn’t feel so anxious anymore. Shiro’s presence was somewhat comfortable now (as comfortable as a God can make a mortal feel). “I started to remember happy things, too. I got a little… lost in them, I guess,” Lance chuckled. 

“I’m glad it made you happy,” Shiro replied, achingly sincere. They stood and stared at each other, smiling, for what felt like an eternity. Then Shiro’s eyebrows shot up, and he placed a hand against his chest. “Oh, how impolite of me! I forgot to ask for your name!”

“Oh, it’s okay!” Lance said hurriedly, “really, don’t worry about it! My name is Hyacinthius Leandro McClain, but everyone just calls me Lance.”

“What a beautiful name,” Shiro smiled warmly. “Hyacinthius Leandro McClain,” he murmured, tasting the syllables on his tongue. Lance nodded shyly. 

“Well, Lance, I must be returning to my chariot soon,” Shiro apologized, pointing to the sun still creeping across the sky. Lance tried not to let the God see his disappointment. “But—and I know this is rather fast—but, I’ve grown quite fond of you in the time we’ve spent together today.”

Lance looked up from the ground where he’d turned to hide his expression, eyes widening. “I—me too,” Lance murmured, breathless. Shiro reached out and took Lance’s hand, this time no flooding sense of calm washed over him. In fact, the warmth of the God’s hand only served to spike Lance’s heart rate even higher. 

“Which is why I’d like to ask you to join me on the Mountain, and live with me and my brothers and sisters, and the Divine Lions of Voltron.”

Lance’s jaw dropped open, and he felt the air in his lungs escape him in a pained wheeze.

“I think you’re an extremely talented musician, and a wonderful man. I can tell bad countanences with just a glance, and yours radiates pure sunshine—which, is kind of perfect, given my role on Mt. Voltron.” Shiro continued, and Lance felt his knees go weak. It’s a dream come true—a God was interested in him, and wanted to bring him to the Mountain Voltron! These kinds of things happened in stories, never to lowly shepherds!

“Not to mention… well, Lance, you’re beautiful,” Shiro said softly. He reached out with the hand that wasn’t holding Lance’s, tucking a stray brown curl from his freckled face. Then his hand slid down to cup Lance’s cheek, now cherried with blush. “Does that sound like something you’d want?”

“I—yes, yes! Of course! I can’t—I can’t believe that you’d—I mean, yes, it sounds like…” Lance faltered, his eyes catching on the warm white wool of his sheep grazing around them. “…Like a dream,” he finished, and saw the glitter of the sea, smelled the warm air filled with the scents of freshly baked bread and ripe native fruits. He felt his enthusiasm begin to wilt. “But I can’t.”

“Why not?” Shiro asked, brows furrowing with disappointment. He took Lance’s face in his hands once more, examining Lance’s sad blue eyes. 

“My family, I need to provide for them. We aren’t wealthy by any means, and even with all my siblings pitching in, we still barely get by. This is my home, I can’t leave,” Lance explained, voice quiet. Shiro nodded, and his hands dropped from Lance’s face. Lance looked down, unable to meet the God’s sad gaze.

“I see,” Shiro murmured. “But… you were not offended by my offer? Nor frightened?”

“Oh, no! Not at all!” Lance cried, and for the first time, he reached out and grabbed Shiro’s hand rather than the other way around. The God looked up earnestly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I respect and honor you as my God but… it’s more than just that. I also… I feel good when I’m around you. I’ve felt good under your glow since I was young. I think, if you’re anything like the distant Sun I’ve loved so dearly all my life, to know you up close would be the most wonderful opportunity in the world.” Lance looked down at their entwined fingers, twisting Shiro’s hand up so he could trace the lines of his sculpted palm. After a moment, Shiro’s fingers closed over Lance’s, stilling their gentle sketching along his skin. 

“Well, in that case, if you cannot come to me, I will come to you.” The Sun God bent over to lift the panflute once again, still holding onto Lance’s hand. “Every opportunity I can, I will come down to this place and visit you. My horses can drive my chariot themselves as long as they want in the day, but at each sunrise and sunset I must be there to guide them to and from their stables with my divine light. Every day and every night, so long as my brothers and sisters conduct no meetings or councils that require my presence, I will return to you. We can stay here, on your island, with your family.” 

“Really? I mean, are you sure? My little home is nothing compared to the palaces on Mt. Voltron, every winter and fall the winds prove too much for the building to take, and it gets cold and dark. It really is no place for a God of the Sun.” Lance wanted this, oh, he wanted it so badly. But he definitely did not want to loop a God into a deal that he’ll grow weary of after one night inside the McClain family home. 

“How do you know it’s nothing like the palaces on Mt. Voltron if you’ve never been?” Shiro asked, eyes bright. “I assure you, the quarrels my family gets into are reason enough for me to avoid it. Why do you think I spend all day alone inside a chariot rather than at my home in the realm of the Gods?”

“Yeah—yeah! You’re right! So, you actually… wanna do this?” Lance asked shyly. He wanted to make sure the God had every opportunity to back out before it got too serious. But Shiro nodded enthusiastically, smiling like a child. Then he held up the panflute and played a short, six-note tune. Upon finishing the song, the flute lit up in a flash of golden light, then went dim once more. 

“I’ve enchanted your flute, so if—for any reason—you need me and I’m not there, you can just play those notes and I’ll come running.” He handed the flute to Lance, smiling. “Here, give it a try.”

“Okay,” Lance took the flute and lifted it to his lips, then played the six notes as Shiro had instructed (albeit shyly). The moment the last note had finished ringing from the instrument, it lit up in the flash of gold light once more. Shiro smiled delightedly, as did Lance. 

“Perfect,” Shiro sighed. “Now, why don’t you show me this little home of yours?”

And so they went, hand in hand, down the lush, grassy hill and towards the town. 

Lance’s heartbeat didn’t slow for a second. 


End file.
